


Quantum of Sherlock

by Winter_of_our_Discontent



Category: James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bondlock, Crossover, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock as Q
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of interconnected drabbles featuring Sherlock Holmes as MI-6's Quartermaster and John Watson as Agent 007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't sure what to make of the new Quartermaster.

The new Q was a surprise, and not an entirely pleasant one. The old Q had been a bit like a kindly grandfather, albeit one that gave you miniaturized weapons of mass destruction instead of slipping you sweets when your mum wasn’t looking.

The new Q was tall, and thin, and wore his tailored suit with the unconscious ease it had taken John years to acquire. And he was young, hovering around thirty and making John feel even older than the still-healing injuries from his last mission were already conspiring to do.

Christ, maybe he was getting too old for this job.

But Double-Oh’s don’t retire, they die in the saddle for Queen and Country, and John is reasonably certain he’s got at least a few good missions in him yet.

Provided he can survive his first meeting with the new Quartermaster.

The man’s light eyes peer up and down John’s body in a quick cold assessment he doesn’t bother to disguise. The honesty is almost a nice change from the therapists, the counselors and the doctors who pretend to be interested in him as something beyond an asset to MI-6. He’s no illusions on that score: he’s a valuable asset, he’s worked hard to be, but that’s what he is, a tool. No simulated concern about his feelings can disguise the real question of ‘are you still any good to us’?

For the moment, at least, he is.

He meets Q’s eyes and holds his gaze briefly, before very deliberately running his own gaze up and down the man’s lanky form in a way that is equally assessing, albeit the opposite of cold.

Nothing wrong with his vision, after all.

The man flushes just slightly under John’s look, a minute pinkness at the neck he’d have missed if he hadn’t been watching for it. John allows himself a touch of a smirk, just enough to let Q know he noticed. 

Feeling somehow like they were now on more equal footing, John offers his hand. “Quartermaster.”

“Double-Oh Seven,” Q says, rolling the syllables around his mouth as though they’re a particularly fine whiskey. John can think of other things for him to wrap his tongue around. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” John says, allowing his hands to linger slightly at the end of the handshake. Then, all business now, as he attempts to explain to his new handler the vital importance of having as many things on him as possible that could be made to explode.

Until Q turns to show him something on a terminal behind them, and he is treated to a view that should be under the dictionary entry for “callipygian.”

Well. Maybe some change isn’t so bad.

And maybe he's still got a few tricks left in him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is definitely not obsessed with Agent 007. Really.

Sherlock kept no special digital or physical records on Commander John Watson, code name 007. His encryptions were some of the finest in the world; he could have buried files deeper than the Marianas Trench, locked them behind a randomizing password combined with biometrics that would have kept foreign hackers amused for decades. But that wasn’t the point, the point was that no system is ever truly unbreakable, and that overconfidence gets one’s agents killed. No Quartermaster worthy of the title ever forgot that, and Sherlock was very, very good at his job. The youngest man ever to reach the rank.

Physical copies were more and less vulnerable, of course. They couldn’t be remotely accessed, but they could be _found._ But that was working for MI-6: you gave up every expectation of privacy beyond that which existed within your own head, and they did their best to take that away too, when possible. (If the CIA had made a bit more progress with their telepathy experiments a few decades ago...) At least support staff were only required to attend psychiatric evaluations yearly, in the absence of extenuating circumstances. 

(Sherlock had already discreetly created a program that searched for any internal communiques with certain keywords and had them rerouted to his private inbox. Mycroft had retaliated by changing some delicate paperwork back to actual paper. Sherlock then arranged for an overnight delivery to Mycroft’s Vauxhall office from a different exclusive Parisian bakery twice a week for two months, supplemented with increased glances at his waistline.)

So any search of Sherlock’s flat, or his office, or his devices, no matter how cursory or in depth it might be, would turn up no more information on 007 than the head of Q branch would have had on any Double-Oh, especially one with as colourful a career as Watson’s.

In his head, though, was a different story.

In his head there were _filing cabinets_ filled with data. It ranged from the straightforward to the esoteric; from past missions to his shoe size (9.5) and his preferences in women (breathing).

Sherlock didn’t consider it obsession so much as interest with a side of preparation. The more he knew about 007, the better he as quartermaster would be able to support him in the field. John Watson was the best, he deserved the best. And he was going to get Sherlock. 

Not like that, though. He wasn’t going to be one of Watson’s conquests. Even if he _was_ quite handsome. And if he _had_ once killed two men while armed only with a fountain pen and nursing three cracked ribs and a broken leg. 

And if, from all available evidence, the agent was _superlative_ in bed.

So when he was informed he was finally (finally!) to meet Watson and equip him for a mission, he accepted with no especial outward signs, inside he was already rearranging mental space for the influx of new data points.

And jumping up and down with excitement and wondering if he looked alright today and if perhaps he should change his shirt.

But only in the privacy of his own mind.


	3. Chapter 3

“Are your missions always like this?” the voice in his earpiece asked.

“No,” said John, huffing a bit as he leapt across the gap between rooftops, just ahead of his pursuers. “Sometimes they go a bit pear shaped.”

“Left, stairs.”

“Ta.” John turned sharply to the left, swinging onto a rickety fire escape and sprinting down.

“Two enemy agents left, five foot nine and six foot one, from the sound of it, armed with Glock 17’s.”

“You can tell all that from the audio feed? That’s brilliant.”

“That’s not what people…. BEHIND YOU”

John spun around just in time to dodge the machete wielded by Assailant #3. He blocked the next swing with a nearby crate, which shattered under the force of the assault. Throwing the pieces aside, John grabbed a sack and swung it like a bat at the taller man’s head. It connected with the machete and ripped apart, filling the air with some sort of flour. His assailant began coughing, and John took advantage of the distraction to knock him out with a few well-placed punches.

“007, are you alright? Report!”

“Fine, fine,” John said, brushing off some of the flour before giving it up as a bad job. If prior experience were anything to go by he’d end up in some sort of body of water at some point anyway. “Though I’m pretty sure most of this could have been avoided if I’d just had an exploding pen.”

There were many kinds of silence. The kind currently coming from his earpiece had a distinctly tetchy flavour.

“With your record it’s a wonder they let you have anything fancier than a pointy stick. Pursuers still on your tail, keep moving, alley at two o’ clock.”

“Can do a lot of damage with a pointy stick,” John replied, running in the direction indicated. Behind him he could hear footfalls, but knew better than to waste time confirming his handler’s information. “Fancy buying me a drink when I get back to headquarters? Reward for the successful agent?”

“Currently both the return and the success seem to be in a fair bit of doubt.”

“Ye of little faith.” A truck blocked the other end of the alley in front of him, forcing John to detour sharply left through yet another side alley. He threw the borrowed machete at the clotheslines hanging a few stories above him, the fabric-laded ropes swinging down to slow the men behind him. “Besides, I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

“Complete the mission objectives, get back in one piece, _and_ return the equipment I gave you and you can buy _me_ a drink.”

“It’s a date,” John said as he threw himself into the river just ahead of the explosion.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has an unexpected (but not unwelcome) visitor.

Only the fact that his minions were handy for dumping his paperwork on had stopped Sherlock trying to fire the entire department the minute he’d been put in charge of it. 

He still considered it from time to time, though. Like right now. It was bad enough he’d had to once again justify his budget to idiots, but to come back from a meeting that was two hours of his life he’d never get back to find his light on, indicating the presence of some moronic underling _in his office..._

“Anderson, if this is about that tiepin design again, I hope you realise it’s meant to be lethal, but for our _targets,_ _not_ our _agents_.”

Sherlock came to a halt at the door as he saw that it was not, in fact, another member of Q branch in his office.

“ Oh, hi, sorry, you weren't around so I figured I'd just wait here,” Agent 007 said pleasantly, turning to face him.

“Ah… 007… I… wasn’t expecting. You. Here. In my office,” Sherlock said. He fought an odd urge to straighten the place up.

“Yeah, well… just got back.” 

“Debriefed?”

Watson shrugged, then winced slightly, the movement almost imperceptible if Sherlock hadn’t been watching for it. “More or less. Here.” He set something carefully on the few square inches of empty space on Sherlock’s desk.

“That’s…”

“You didn’t specify _operational,_ you know...”

“...my…”

“...so technically I am within mission parameters there...”

“...it’s been in an explosion _and_ submerged in salt water…”

“May have electrocuted it a bit too. At the end.”

“ _Dog_ hairs?”

“Lion, actually,” the agent winced again. “Long story.”

“I always miss something,” Sherlock said, gingerly picking up the blackened, crushed remains of what had once been the very pinnacle of MI6 technology, but was now more of a paperweight. Provided you didn’t much like the paper underneath. “I don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that, actually,” 007 said, grinning. At Sherlock. He was looking _at Sherlock_ and _grinning._ It was suddenly a very good day. “Though I’m hoping for the latter. I believe I owe you a drink?”

And it looked to be a splendid evening, too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is dedicated to Crystal (LadyRedCrest) one of the organisers of 221bCon and an all around lovely lady. 
> 
> 221bCon was, btw, one of the best experiences of my life. Love to everyone else there!
> 
> AO3 is having an author auction fundraiser on tumblr, there are some amazing authors (and me) involved! Bid and make them write for you!

“Have you ever done fieldwork?” 007 asked over drinks.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Any idiot can shoot a man or blow something up. I’m the only one qualified to do half of what Q branch does.” Besides, it would mean trusting someone else for support either in Q branch or the field, and he was not a trusting sort.

“An idiot, then, am I?” Agent Watson asked, but he was smiling as he said it. Sherlock’s stomach did a flip-floppy thing.

“Don’t be like that, most people are,” Sherlock took a sip of his wine. “Very good at pulling triggers, though.”

“Oh, you’d be amazed at what I’m good at, Q.”

“I’ve read your file, Double Oh-Seven.”

“John, please,” John said. Sherlock’s stomach did another flip-floppy thing. “And you shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

“You haven’t read mine,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I’m more of a hands-on learner,” John said, spreading his hands palms up on the table. In the dim lighting it was impossible to see any of the thin white scar lines Sherlock knew he carried. He fought the urge to pull the hands closer to examine them. “But I’m a very quick study.” 

“You haven’t asked my name either.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Do I need to?”

“Most people do.”

“Most people are idiots. If you want to tell me your actual name, _Quartermaster,_ you’ll tell me. But I won’t beg.”

Sherlock smirked. “You’re sure about that.”

John grinned. “You’ve read my file, you tell me.”

“And here I thought you were suggesting I try,” Sherlock paused to take another sip of wine, “…fieldwork.”

“Well,” John said, his head doing a slight tilt to the side that Sherlock refused to categorize as adorable, “far be it from me to stop you expanding your horizons.”


	6. Chapter 6

The call came at half midnight. “Is this Q?”

“John? I mean, Double-oh-seven? Is there a mission, is everything alright?” Was _John_ alright? And why was he calling _him_?

“Yeah, mission successful... for a certain... fuck it, I don’t... this is stupid, I shouldn’t have called.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was awake. I’m at home right now. The address is two twenty-one B Baker Street. Take a cab.”

In the seconds of silence that followed, he could practically _hear_ Watson thinking it over. “I’ll be there in twenty.” The line went dead.

There was nothing to eat in the flat. Would he want food? He sounded tired, likely hungry as well. They could order in? He had menus. He had tea. He could offer tea. Did he have tea? Watson took his tea with milk but no sugar. Did he have milk? There was only one thing to do.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he bellowed.

Nineteen minutes later, Sherlock had just finished clearing a half-reassembled (and greatly improved) sniper scope off a chair and was fussing over the arrangement of the biscuits when he heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called out as he moved the handle on John’s tea mug to the left.

“Not very secure, is it?” John asked from the sitting room entrance.

“Not everyone would have avoided the traps on the third, seventh, and sixteenth step, my landlady is former MI-6, and I keyed the doorknob to your biometrics when you informed me you were coming over. Tea?” Sherlock offered, turning to face him. 

“Ta,” Watson said, accepting the mug. Instead of the bespoke, tailored agent of legend, this John Watson wore a black shooting jacket over an oatmeal coloured jumper and jeans. He looked tired, the skin under his eyes tinted grey and the rest sallow. He looked simultaneously touchable and breakable, and it was all Sherlock could do to offer him the tea instead of reaching out for him.

John sank into an armchair while Sherlock perched in the chair opposite and tried not to think how well his flat suited the agent, and vice versa. He _fit_ there, and Sherlock had sudden images of John being there, staying there, living there with him on Baker Street… as though he’d only become aware of the John Watson-shaped hole in his flat as it had been filled.

Unfortunately, whatever Watson’s current thoughts were, they were clearly less sanguine than Sherlock’s; he stared into his cup silently as though hoping to read a fortune in the leaves hidden at the bottom of the milky liquid. 

“The mission?” Sherlock prompted with a gentleness that would have astonished his staff and horrified his brother. Or vice versa. “It was classified as a routine retrieval.” And damn M for making him do the quarterly budgeting and other idiotic paperwork that meant he’d had to assign mission support for such an ostensibly quotidian assignment to someone else. 

John’s attention snapped back to Sherlock. “The mission, yeah.” His mouth quirked slightly. “Pretty sure ‘routine’ is codeword for ‘we’re going to find new and different ways to bugger this up’.” 

“Actually, the codeword for that is…” Sherlock paused mid-sentence as a new thought occurred. “Oh, you were joking.”

“Ever the genius, Q,” John said affectionately. Sherlock didn’t mind being teased when John did it. “Anyway, I know even the best planning can’t prepare for everything, but… there were _children_ , Q. ‘Collateral damage’ my arse. And I… I completed the mission anyway. I _completed the mission._ ” 

He set the tea down on the floor and hunched forward, head buried in his hands. “Christ, I don’t even know if I’m more worried for being a shite human being for doing it or a shite agent for having _doubts_ while I was doing it. The fuck is wrong with me?”

John let out a huff of breath too harsh to be a laugh. “And I thought… I’m not fit company for anyone tonight. Couldn’t see myself going out and picking up some bird. But… I thought of you. And you’re not another agent but I don’t have to lie about what I did, and you’ve got enough blood on your hands I figure you won’t be horrified. Even if you ought to be.”

“I play the violin,” Sherlock announced, standing. 

John looked up at him, confused by the apparent non-sequitur. “That’s… nice?”

Sherlock grabbed his violin from the mantel and began preparing to play. “Is there a composer you particularly admire?”

“I don’t really pay much… Anything’s fine.”

Sherlock began to play, surreptitiously keeping watch over John out of the corner of his eye. 

He was pleased to see, by the time he lovingly drew out the last few measures of Mendelssohn’s _Lieder,_ that sometime during an earlier movement John had fallen asleep. Calculating that the angle of his head and neck were such that the agent wasn’t likely to be egregiously sore in the morning, Sherlock covered him with a blanket before turning out the lights.

John was still there, fast asleep, when Sherlock left for work in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with thanks to Vulgarweed for the rush beta.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by repeated viewings of Skyfall and originally posted on Tumblr.


End file.
